A Rebellious Heroine

“I have not seen
So likely an ambassador of love.”
- “Merchant of Venice.”

Parker mounted the steps lightly and rang the bell.  Marguerite’s kindness of the night before, which was in marked contrast to her coolness at the MacFarland dance, had led him to believe that he was not wholly without interest to her, and her invitation that he should call upon her had given him a sincere pleasure; in fact, he wondered that he should be so pleased over so trivial a circumstance.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost my heart again,” he said to himself.  “That is, again if I ever lost it before,” he added.

And his mind reverted to a little episode at Bar Harbor the summer before, and he was not sorry to feel that that wound was cured—­ though, as a matter of fact, it had never amounted to more than a scratch.

A moment later the door opened, and Parker entered, inquiring for Miss Andrews as he did so.

“I do not know, but I will see if Miss Andrews is at home,” said the butler, ushering him into the parlor.  That imposing individual knew quite well that Miss Andrews was at home, but he also knew that it was not his place to say so until the young lady had personally assured him of the facts in so far as they related to this particular caller.  All went well for Parker, however.  Miss Andrews consented to be at home to him, and five minutes later she entered the drawing room where Parker was seated.

“How do you do?” she said, frigidly, ignoring his outstretched hand.

(“Think of that, will you?” interposed Harley.  “He’d come to propose, and was to leave engaged, and she insists upon opening upon him frigidly, ignoring his outstretched hand.”

I couldn’t help smiling.  “Why did you let her do it?” I asked.

“I could no more have changed it than I could fly,” returned Stuart.  “She ought never to have been at home if she was going to behave that way.  I couldn’t foresee the incident, and before I knew it that’s the way it happened.  But I thought I could fix it up later, so I went on.  Read along, and see what I got let into next.”

I proceeded to read as follows:)

“You see,” said Parker, with an admiring glance at her eyes, in spite of the fact that the coolness of her reception rather abashed him—­ “you see, I have not delayed very long in coming.”

“So I perceive,” returned Marguerite, with a bored manner.  “That’s what I said to Mrs. Willard as I came down.  You don’t allow your friends much leeway, Mr. Parker.  It doesn’t seem more than five minutes since we were together at the card party.”

(“That’s cordial, eh?” said Harley, as I read.  “Nice sort of talk for a heroine to a hero.  Makes it easy for me, eh?”

“I must say if you manage to get a proposal in now you’re a genius,” said I.

“Oh—­as for that, I got reckless when I saw how things were going,” returned Harley.  “I lost my temper, and took it out of poor Parker.  He proposes, as you will see when you come to it; but it isn’t realism—­it’s compulsion.  I simply forced him into it—­poor devil.  But go on and read for yourself.”

I did so, as follows:)

This was hardly the treatment Parker had expected at the hands of one who had been undeniably gracious to him at the card-table the night before.  He had received the notice that she was to be his partner at the tables with misgivings, on his arrival at Mrs. Stoughton’s, because his recollection of her behavior towards him at the MacFarland dance had led him to believe that he was personally distasteful to her; but as the evening at cards progressed he felt instinctively drawn towards her, and her vivacity of manner, cleverness at repartee, and extreme amiability towards himself had completely won his heart, which victory their little tete-a-tete during supper had confirmed.  But here, this morning, was reversion to her first attitude.

What could it mean?  Why should she treat him so?

(“I couldn’t answer that question to save my life,” said Stuart.  “That is, not then, but I found out later.  I put it in, however, and let Parker draw his own conclusions.  I’d have helped him out if I could, but I couldn’t.  Go on and see for yourself.”

I resumed.)

Parker could not solve the problem, but it pleased him to believe that something over which he had no control had gone wrong that morning, and that this had disturbed her equanimity, and that he was merely the victim of circumstances; and somehow or other it pleased him also to think that he could be the victim of her circumstances, so he stood his ground.

“It is a beautiful day,” he began, after a pause.

“Is it?” she asked, indifferently.

(“Frightfully snubbish,” said I, appalled at the lengths to which Miss Andrews was going.

“Dreadfully,” sighed Harley.  “And so unlike her, too.”)

“Yes,” said Parker, “so very beautiful that it seemed a pity that you and I should stay indoors, with plenty of walks to be taken and—­”

Marguerite interrupted him with a sarcastic laugh.

“With so much pity and so many walks, Mr. Parker, why don’t you take a few of them!” she said.

(“Good Lord!” said I.  “This is the worst act of rebellion yet.  She seems beside herself.”

“Read on!” said Harley, in sepulchral tones.)

This was Parker’s opportunity.  “I am not fond of walking, Miss Andrews,” he said; and then he added, quickly, “that is, alone—­I don’t like anything alone.  Living alone, like walking alone, is—­”

“Let’s go walking,” said Marguerite, shortly, as she rose up from her chair.  “I’ll be down in two minutes.  I only need to put my hat on.”

Parker acquiesced, and Miss Andrews walked majestically out of the parlor and went up-stairs.

“Confound it!” muttered Parker, as she left him.  “A minute more, and I’d have known my fate.”

(“You see,” said Harley, “I’d made up my mind that that proposal should take place in that chapter, and I thought I’d worked right up to it, in spite of all Miss Andrews’s disagreeable remarks when, pop—off she goes to put on her hat.”

“Oh—­as for that—­that’s all right,” said I.  “Parker had suggested the walk, and a girl really does like to stave off a proposal as long as she can when she knows it is sure to come.  Furthermore, it gives you a chance to describe the hat, and so make up for a few of the words you lost when she refused to discuss ball-dresses with Mrs. Willard.”

“I never thought of that; but don’t you think I worked up to the proposal skilfully?” asked Harley.

“Very,” said I.  “But you’re dreadfully hard on Parker.  It would have been better to have had the butler fire him out, head over heels.  He could have thrashed the butler for doing that, but with your heroine his hands were tied.”

“Go on and read,” said Harley.)

“She must have known what I was driving at,” Parker reflected, as he awaited her return.  “Possibly she loves me in spite of this frigid behavior.  This may be her method of concealing it; but if it is, I must confess it’s a case of

’Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, But—­why did you kick me down-stairs?’

Certainly, knowing, as she now must, what my feelings are, her being willing to go for a walk on the cliffs, or anywhere, is a favorable sign.

(“Parker merely echoed my own hope in that remark,” said Harley.  “If I could get them engaged, I was satisfied to do it in any way that might be pleasing to her.”)

A moment later Marguerite appeared, arrayed for the walk.  Parker rose as she entered and picked up his gloves.

“You are a perfect picture this morning,” said he.

“I’m ready,” she said, shortly, ignoring the compliment.  “Where are we scheduled to walk?—­or are we to have something to say about it ourselves?”

Parker looked at her with a wondering smile.  The aptness of the remark did not strike him.  However, he was equal to the occasion.

“You don’t believe in free will, then?” he asked.

(“It was the only intelligent remark he could make, under the circumstances, you see,” explained Harley.

“He was a clever fellow,” said I, and resumed reading.)

“I believe in a great many things we are supposed to do without,” said Marguerite, sharply.

They had reached the street, and in silence walked along Bellevue Avenue.

“There are a great many things,” vouchsafed Parker, as they turned out of the avenue to the cliffs, “that men are supposed not to do without—­”

“Yes,” said Marguerite, sharply—­“vices.”

“I did not refer to them,” laughed Parker.  “In fact, Miss Andrews, the heart of man is supposed to be incomplete until he has lost it, and has succeeded in getting another for his very—­”

“Are you an admirer of Max Nordau?” interposed Marguerite, quickly.

(“Whatever led you to put that in?” I asked.

“Go on, and you’ll see,” said Harley.  “I didn’t put it in.  It’s what she said.  I’m not responsible.”)

“I don’t know anything about Max Nordau,” said Parker, somewhat surprised at this sudden turn of the conversation.

“Are you familiar with Schopenhauer?” she asked.

(“It was awfully rough on the poor fellow,” said Harley, “but I couldn’t help him.  I’d forced him in so far that I couldn’t get him out.  His answer floored me as completely as anything that Miss Andrews ever did.”)

“Schopenhauer?” said Parker, nonplussed.  “Oh yes,” he added, an idea dawning on his mind.  “That is to say, moderately familiar—­though, as a matter of fact, I’m not at all musical.”

Miss Andrews laughed immoderately, in which Parker, thinking that he had possibly said something witty, although he did not know what it was, joined.  In a moment the laughter subsided, and for a few minutes the two walked on in silence.  Finally Parker spoke, resignedly.

“Miss Andrews,” he said, “perhaps you have noticed—­perhaps not—­that you have strongly interested me.”

“Yes,” she said, turning upon him desperately.  “I have noticed it, and that is why I have on two separate occasions tried to keep you from saying so.”

“And why should I not tell you that I love—­” began Parker.

“Because it is hopeless,” retorted Marguerite.  “I am perfectly well aware, Mr. Parker, what we are down for, and I suppose I cannot blame you for your persistence.  Perhaps you don’t know any better; perhaps you do know better, but are willing to give yourself over unreservedly into the hands of another; perhaps you are being forced and cannot help yourself.  It is just possible that you are a professional hero, and feel under obligations to your employer to follow out his wishes to the letter.  However it may be, you have twice essayed to come to the point, and I have twice tried to turn you aside.  Now it is time to speak truthfully.  I admire and like you very much, but I have a will of my own, am nobody’s puppet, and if Stuart Harley never writes another book in his life, he shall not marry me to a man I do not love; and, frankly, I do not love you.  I do not know if you are aware of the fact, but it is true nevertheless that you are the third fiance he has tried to thrust upon me since July 3d.  Like the others, if you insist upon blindly following his will, and propose marriage to me, you shall go by the board.  I have warned you, and you can now do as you please.  You were saying—?”

“That I love you with all my soul,” said Parker, grimly.

(“He didn’t really love her then, you know,” said Harley.  “He’d been cured of that in five minutes.  But I was resolved that he should say it, and he did.  That’s how he came to say it grimly.  He did it just as a soldier rushes up to the cannon’s mouth.  He added, also:”)

“Will you be my wife?”

“Most certainly not,” said Marguerite, turning on her heel, and leaving the young man to finish his walk alone.

(“And then,” said Harley, with a chuckle, “Parker’s manhood would assert itself in spite of all I could do.  He made an answer, which I wrote down.”

“I see,” said I, “but you’ve scratched it out.  What was that line?”

“’”Thank the Lord!” said Parker to himself, as Miss Andrews disappeared around the corner,’” said Stuart Harley.  “That’s what I wrote, and I flatter myself on the realism of it, for that’s just what any self-respecting hero would have said under the circumstances.”

A silence came over us.

“Do you wonder I’ve given it up,” asked Stuart, after a while.

“Yes,” said I, “I do.  Such opposition would nerve me up to a battle royal.  I wouldn’t give it up until I’d returned from Barnegat, if I were you,” I added, anxious to have him renew his efforts; for an idea had just flashed across my mind, which, although it involved a breach of faith on my part, I nevertheless believed to be good and justifiable, since it might relieve Stuart Harley of his embarrassment.

“Very well,” I rejoiced to hear him say.  “I won’t give it up until then, but I haven’t much hope after that last chapter.”

So Harley went to Barnegat, after destroying his letter to Messrs. Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick, whilst I put my breach of faith into operation.)